


As the Earth Shines Down on the Sun

by Soulsister12345



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Feels, Complete, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Head Boy Draco Malfoy, Head Girl Hermione Granger, Hogwarts Seventh Year, Hurt/Comfort, Psychological Trauma, Romance, Sun and Earth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29576043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soulsister12345/pseuds/Soulsister12345
Summary: The Sun couldn't help falling in love with the Earth, even if it meant the end of the world.7th year Head Girl/ Head boy : Dramione
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 12
Kudos: 77





	As the Earth Shines Down on the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Introducing: a product of my procrastination on my other story and a poem I had to write for class.
> 
> Enjoy!

Hermione Granger stood beneath his large Oak tree, calling out the names of prefects she paired together for patrol. Ten feet above her, Draco Malfoy nodded his approval, one leg swinging off the branch back and forth.

She hesitated several moments after reading the last name; her hands folding the parchment once, then twice. 

“Is that all then…?” he trailed off, his head tilting down to look at her. She nodded, diverting her eyes before they could meet his and heading back to her bench across the courtyard. 

Hermione had taken a liking to the uncomfortable stone bench about a week into the school year. It made for the perfect hiding spot; hardly anyone ever came into the courtyard and no one would think to look for her there.

And it truly was the perfect hiding spot, up until Draco Malfoy intruded. One day, she had looked up from her potions essay, only to see him perched between the branches of an old oak tree.

It was a bit peculiar, that the infamously spoiled and pompous boy would refer to an old oak tree for his place of leisure. Especially when there were several other empty stone benches scattered about the overgrown courtyard. 

It was also extremely strange that he chose to lounge in one of the most desolate and decrepit areas of Hogwarts; but she was not one to judge, considering she sat several meters away from him every day.

She wasn’t normally this skittish around the blonde, most days she set the intention to ignore his incalculable energy. 

Blaise Zabini had ambushed her earlier that morning, between breakfast and her first class. Focused on untangling the shoulder strap of her book bag from her Head Girl badge, he had managed to sneak up on her. A considerable feat to accomplish since her paranoia-riddled mind could never slow, and as a result, her gaze could never miss a detail of her surroundings. 

Blaise had never actually spoken a word to her before, not one of substance. Aside from occasional “Hellos”, “Excuse me”, and on one particularly talkative day, he dared to say, “You dropped your quill”. A year before, she would bitterly attribute this behavior to the Slytherin house's sense of self-importance. 

Today he had a plethora of words to spare as she tried to excuse herself. “Granger you’ve got to do something about Malfoy. It’s getting ridiculous,” he had pleaded, after a weak attempt at small talk. She stopped trying to escape and turned; the forest that was her hair had been braided back today, it gently swayed against her shoulders.

“What do you mean?” she asked. Fed up with her failed attempts to unsheathe her silver badge from her book bag's unrelenting grip, Blaise reached forward and yanked it free. She smiled her thanks, to which he brushed off. 

“You mean to say you haven’t noticed? The man spends all of his time in trees. We only see him in classes and then he climbs right back up. He started paying first years to run him food and water,” his piercing scowl made her shoulders rise defensively. 

At the beginning of their partnership, Malfoy and Hermione worked together like water and oil. 

It was announced that he would be Head Boy in the week leading up to school. Where there had been rage in Harry and Ron, Hermione felt cool dread and despair.

She limited all unnecessary communication between them via handwritten notes and relayed messages by prefects. She took care to evacuate their shared common room at the sound of the door opening; she made herself scarce when he entered the room. 

But eventually, she felt defeat, and then came frustration. Why should she be the one to accommodate him, to make the situation more comfortable for both of them, when he was the aggressor.

In her defiance, she quit all attempts to avoid him. It was then that she noticed him.

She noticed the way he walked; the energetic and almost predatory gait he once employed years before to saunter around Hogwarts was long gone. In its place was a humbled, leisurely pace. His shoulders didn’t slouch, but they weren’t as rigid and proper.

He was quieter than before; no longer did he surround himself with an adoring crowd. He seems to prefer solitude, walking alone, and spending all of his time alone. Although he was still cordial and polite to others, his interest seemed swayed beyond.

He was immensely professional, always willing to take on more work. Her tone with him had been curt, sometimes impolite; he never complained nor took issue with her animosity. 

She began to test the air between them. She embraced their partnership, offering times to meet to discuss plans delegated to them by Headmistress McGonagall. She stopped leaving the room at his entrance. She even made an extra cup of tea for him one evening.

In a fatigued stupor one morning, she asked about the tiny forest green hardcover book he had in his hand. Little did she know it would cause him to embark on a lengthy rant. When her nose scrunched in distaste at the realization it was a poetry book, he laughed.

She began to understand the gravitational pull people felt towards him, the attraction to his warmth. There was an absence of cold in his demeanor; she had only just realized since before this year, it had been a selective unveiling, only treated to those he deemed worthy. 

An alliance formed quickly after. The defiant pool of students had been difficult to shepherd. The instability of leadership coupled with the trauma students experienced during the war left many not feeling inclined to listen to two teenagers only a few years older than them. Especially ones who weren’t even at Hogwarts during the time of crisis. 

But all of these new developments did not mean that Draco Malfoy was her friend. They had a fragile, quiet understanding of each other. If he left a steaming cup of tea on their shared common room coffee table when she fell asleep on a lengthy essay, it was only out of chivalry. And if she read a book she thought he might enjoy, and then left it outside his bedroom door, it was only out of common sense. 

So, yes, she had noticed his strange affinity for nature and tall heights, but she didn’t think it was worrisome. Her own healer had instructed her to spend a lot of time outdoors. She assumed the compulsive tree climbing was Malfoy’s coping mechanism. 

She then turned back to Blaise, “He enjoys it. Just climb up yourself if you miss him so much.”

“The problem isn’t that I don’t want to hang out in a tree with him. The problem… hey Granger!” he snapped his fingers to get her wandering eyes back on him, “Pay attention. The problem is that he’s not acting like himself. Everybody is worried about him.”

She sighed then, his face was earnest and open. There had been a pinch between his brows, a mark where his teeth had worried his lip. There was a defeated slouch to his shoulders that told her he had resigned himself to her rejection.

“Why do you think I’d be able to do something,” she had asked, instead of saying no. As soon as she unintentionally entertained his idea, she saw a triumphant look flash across his face.

“He doesn’t talk to anyone except you. The only time he comes down is when you make him show up to meetings. I bet he would even sleep up there if you two didn’t share a dorm…” he had trailed off, turning to her expectantly.

“Blaise, look, I want to help but…”

“Great! Thank you so much, you’re the best Hermione!” and with that he had shot away, weaving through the passing crowd of students. 

She had wasted a few moments hovering by the Courtyard doorway. Armed with a book in one hand, and her prefect schedule in the other, she made her way over to his usual tree. 

She didn’t say anything. 

So, there she was. A coward. Her elbows dug into the stone bench as she laid on her stomach, fiddling with the corner of a page. The artistic grooves of the bench showed a carved scene of nymphs slumbering in a forest. It made for an uncomfortable surface to lounge on, but she loved it anyway.

She was in the middle of her book, she could lay it flat on its spine and the pages wouldn’t float to one side.

Absentmindedly, she wondered if Malfoy would be interested in a memoir of a candlemaker's life during the War of the Giants. 

It was a weird precedent to set. To involve herself in Malfoy’s personal life. To imply that she cared if he was unwell. 

So it made sense that she didn’t interfere, that she didn’t stick her nose where it didn’t belong.

It didn’t make her a bad person. It just meant that she understood boundaries. 

And even if she said something, like Blaise asked (begged) for her to do, it would do no good. If he didn’t listen to his best friend of nearly a decade, why would he listen to her?

The courtyard was empty, except for the two of them. It was as barren as a city’s night sky. The Courtyard was an unpopular spot for students to spend their free time. Gnarled and withered vines encroached upon the bordering golden stone walls. It was quiet and lonely; rarely did people walk by or stroll through. And if they did, they were always alone. There was an unconscious urge, Hermione had decided, for people to spend every moment possible with their loved ones since the war.

All people except for her and Malfoy, that was. 

Grey eyes clashed against hers. Warmth flooded her face when she realized her eyes had wandered off printed words, up Malfoy's tree and right to his face. His eyebrows were raised in confusion, his lips tugging up at the corners.

She squinted to the left of him, and then the right, to appear as if she had just been scanning the landscape.

She risked a fleeting glance at him five minutes later, when the crimson flush of her cheeks had faded into a pale pink rose. It was another error in judgment. He wore a small grin as if someone had just whispered in his ear a rich secret. He must have felt her gaze on him because his head began to lift. She quickly collected her things and left. 

▲▲▲▲▲▲

“Ron, I don’t know how many other ways I can explain this to you. We’ve been at this for hours, I have my own work to get to,” Hermione said, forehead pressed against the library table.

She had been helping Ron study for a test he forgot about for the past two hours. It was her fault really, for getting herself into this miserable situation. 

Hermione had made a deal with herself: eat all meals at the Gryffindor table, do homework with Harry and Ron before dinner, sit with them in class. If she did all of this, she was a good friend and therefore a good person. 

It wasn’t even four o’clock, but she was exhausted. And, she was frustrated. It wasn’t Ron’s fault he didn’t understand, he wasn’t doing anything wrong, but she was so irritable with everything he did.

“You are months ahead, Hermione, you can stand to waste a few minutes helping me out here.” She saw the telltale pinkening of his ears, and an angry flush climbing up the back of his neck and withheld a sigh. Years before, she would fight tooth and nail to get Ron to do his homework. This year, however, he constantly required her assistance for strenuous amounts of time.

It was odd since he never paid attention during class. And because he was guaranteed a job as an Auror after graduation even if he didn’t have excellent marks. 

“I mean seriously, we hardly ever see you anymore, and when we do you’re always in this pissy attitude. We’re all getting sick of it. Did I say something to make you act like this? Did Harry?”

“No, you’re all fine, honest. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude or absent. I’m just…” she trailed off, unsure. 

He wasn’t satiated in the least by her halfhearted apology, if anything he seemed incensed by her lack of explanation. Harry was quiet across from her, staring at her in a way that made her feel exposed and vulnerable, “I mean, merlin, it’s been months of this. At first we figured you were just getting over the…” her stomach sank. Harry’s head spun to her right, he gave Ron a warning glare. She fiddled with the corner of her book.

Ron’s voice lowered, but his anger was still sharp, “...what happened at Malfoy Manor. We were all trying our hardest to look out for you, to be there for you. But it’s like you don’t even want to be helped, you know? Like, you’re just content to be a raging—”

“Ron!” Harry reprimanded, his eyes darting between them.

It wasn’t Ron’s words pouring ocean water in her eyes, it was the confirmation that all she could muster the energy for was not enough. She felt defeated. 

Hermione would rather bathe in a vat of lava, than cry in front of them. So she excused herself from the tense silence and skipped dinner that night.

▲▲▲▲▲▲

The next morning, she stumbled out of her room, uniformed and armed with a book. Like clockwork, Malfoy glided into their common room. 

She set to work making her first of many cups of coffee while he lounged on their plum velvet couch. 

The coffee maker had required a large leather trunk, and she had to carry it all the way through Kings Cross amid the chaos of crowds of families and students saying goodbye. But every morning she was reminded of its value; stale morning air freshened with coffee beans and the gentle humming filling the silent room. The caffeine, though, was the main reason she imported it from her parent's home all of the way to Hogwarts.

While it brewed, she sat down next to Malfoy and put on her shoes. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him watching her. 

Somewhere along the way, they had fallen into a routine. His lips would part and she’d hold her breath, thinking he would say something. Only for him to turn away and slump against the couch. 

She looked up, shoes laced and robes adorned, to see him hovering above her with her thermos. He always made a point of pouring it for her.

After she mumbled thank you, he went to open the door for them. Sometimes he would ask about the book she had tucked under her arm on their walk to the Great Hall. Usually, he sensed she was too sleepy to rise to her usual enthusiasm for conversation. 

When her feet strayed away from the linear path his tall form carved through the hallways, he would gently tug at the fabric by her elbow. A soft look in his eyes much unlike the mild annoyance and faint concern she would expect from others.

He would walk her to the Gryffindor table, despite the standard scornful sneers he received. After she sat down, he would turn and leave. Sometimes he would snag a silver plate of pastries on his way out. 

No one knew what to make of this development, least of all her. When he first initiated this routine, she went along with it. Their new passive and gentle understanding of each other seemed fragile. Months later, it was comforting normality.

Ron and Harry had other words to describe it.

They had interrogated her, at first. Once realizing she hadn’t been poisoned or potioned, they had been flush with indignation that she would befriend a Death Eater, her former bully.

She had swallowed the urge to correct them, that he was no Death Eater. Instead, she tried to soothe their anger, telling them not to worry, that she and Malfoy were the furthest thing from friends.

But then Malfoy would approach her in classes when they needed a partner. And when class ended, he would escort her to the next. His tall frame sheltering her from trampling crowds of students passing through the halls. 

After that began, Harry and Ron accused her of spiraling, that she was exhibiting “reckless behavior and self-destructive behaviors”, how Hermione wasn’t coping with the war healthily. 

All because Draco Malfoy was her potions partner. 

Long ago, their criticism would strike something deep within her gut, making her eyes water and filling the pages of her journal with an angry, messy scrawl. Now, it made her headaches worsen and the weight upon her shoulders heavier.

Ginny tried to field their passive-aggressive comments and nagging, but she could not mediate their interactions all of the time. 

In truth, Hermione could not blame them for their anger. They tried their hardest to be supportive of her. When she drank a potion with her midday meal, they schooled their features into careful, oblivious observation. The times her fingers traced over her covered arm, they spared no more than a few glances. She knew she could tell them anything, that she was expected to tell them everything she felt no matter how dark. But she didn’t want to and she felt guilty for it.

And what sense did it make, to confide in Ron and Harry when she wasn’t ready to, just to make them feel better about being her friend?

Throughout the day, she caught Blaise staring expectantly at her. She managed to field his attempts to talk to her the rest of the week.

But on Friday evening, as she made her way back to her dorm, she heard him running to catch up with her.

“Granger!” he called.

She walked faster. “Granger… dammit…wait up!” her feet slowed to a stop and she sighed.

“So, whatever you said didn’t work,” he started. She opened her mouth to correct him but he rushed on, “So I’m guessing you didn’t talk to him?” 

Her head hung low, she nodded in wordless confirmation, “And why the hell not?” he sighed. His eyebrows raised wearily in the same way Ron’s did when she floundered for excuses to skip his Quidditch games.

“I told you, it wouldn’t do any good. I don’t want to be rude —especially when you seem so upset— but it wasn’t a very clever idea to begin with.” She started walking again, longing for the creature comforts of her living room fireplace and sofa.

Blaise scoffed and muttered something that sounded suspiciously similar to “brightest” and “of our age”. 

“Just, do it as a favor to me. Alright? Even if it doesn’t make sense to you…” he cast a pleading glance. 

Her muscles were heavy and lethargic as she trudged through the hall. Her eyelids were at war and a dull ache was spiraling through the base of her skull. “I’ll see what I can do, but no promises,” she said.

Hesitant after her last failure, he side-eyed her before nodding and leaving her.

Curfew had been extended several hours. Gryffindor was hosting a party for fifth years and up; all houses were invited. She and Malfoy had actually organized the entire event, proposing it to Professor McGonagall in the name of school morale and house unity. 

But tonight she was tired. The entire year she was tired and could not be bothered nor trusted to remain civil when she constantly had a headache. All she wanted to do was sleep and maybe read.

The fire was already lit when she opened the door, though the couch was empty. She briefly wondered if Malfoy was at the party, then thought better. He was probably in the very tree Blaise loathed. 

She imagined it would be nice to watch the stars from that height. 

Hermione couldn’t fall asleep right away. This was a typical symptom of thoughts that make your head hurt. She read an entire book cover to cover to quiet her mind and distract from the itching of her arm.

She had developed a keen dislike for her bedroom; a phenomenon that would have stunned her parents considering how much time she spent in her room at home. It was dark and eerie, shadows of furniture moved along her walls.

On especially bad days, she would treat herself to a night on the couch. Logically, she knew the temperature was the same throughout their quarters, but the common room ambiance was infinitely more warm and soothing. 

It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the couch faced his door. Or that she would wake up tucked in a soft emerald blanket that felt like sun-warmed sand and smelled like a clean breeze through a forest. 

When she finally fell asleep that night, it was on old parchment and in front of a crackling fire. 

She woke later, the fireplace illuminating the darkroom. Her cheeks were decorated with a shallow waterfall, the book had been moved to the coffee table. The blanket laid limp and dejected on the floor beneath her; she must have shaken it off at some point in her sleep.

Always, Hermione woke in the middle of the night. A cool chill running down her back and her face pulled taut in a frozen scream. Her fingers grasping at fabric and her breath caught in a bubble at the back of her throat. 

When this happened, she found herself forgetting. Just for a brief moment, she would lose track of where she was. And usually, for that brief moment, she was on a cool floor and slick with warm blood. The air was metallic and thick; her body was weightless with agony and bone-crushing pain.

Tonight was an especially vivid dream. Her healer had warned her numerous times that the state of her emotions before bed would influence the detail of her dreams. 

Gasping for breath, she nearly fell over, tripping on her slippers. Her sight was tunnel vision, focusing on acquiring her coat and then her wand. She gave up when the search for robes took too long and then set her sights on the door handle. 

Dimly, she was aware she knocked over a side table, that she sent a lamp crashing to the ground. This, nor the muffled sound of a masculine voice calling her name, could not deter her from walking out the door.

She made it to the courtyard, beneath Malfoy’s tree, before two arms wove and wound around under her ribs.

The tension sagged out of her body, yet he did not stagger back. If anything, she was pressed closer to his chest. Her staggered breathing attempted to match his own steady inhales and exhales. They stood until her heart rate slowed.

She became aware of the dew from wet grass chilling her bare feet, of small rocks and roots digging into them. The light breeze caressed and tickled her bare and wet face. The expensive warmth of another human radiated against her back and the precious weight of his forehead was cradled by where her neck met her shoulder. 

She’d like to claim that the next move was determined by her state of exhaustion, but Hermione had never felt more aware of her surroundings. 

She turned, his arms tightened a breath, and then loosened as he realized she wasn’t trying to break free. Her arms stretched around his neck and the crown of her head pressed into his chest.

When her legs were wavering reeds of grass in the wind, he reached down and carried her to her stone bench. 

It could have been ten minutes or a couple of hours that they sat there. Hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder. His head pointedly turned away from her as his hand soothed gentle circles into her back. 

“I’m sorry if I broke your lamp,” she blurted out. Her eyes set on the creeping vines of ivy decorating the courtyard's stone walls.

There is a strange tension in the nose, and a heavyweight building on the muscles of the face when one tries to prevent an onslaught of tears. Hermione felt it just then, but she was well-practiced in managing this mountainous load.

“It was an ugly lamp,” he says. She laughed like he is the greatest comedian to ever walk the Earth. 

He was still not meeting her eyes, and for that she was grateful. She had always found a strange breed of empathy in the act of allowing one to shield their face as they cried. 

“But still, it was your lamp. I’ll buy you a new one. Or you can have mine, I don’t need a light in my room.”

“So you agree that my lamp was ugly?” he admonished her.

“You said it first,” she traced the carved indent of a sleeping nymph with her forefinger to avoid staring at the bright glow of his complexion in the moonlight. Something about him, the intense anguish and passion painted on his celestial features, made her wonder if he belonged with the stars in the sky.

“You’re not supposed to agree when someone calls themself ugly. Or, in this case, their prized possession,” he stated, “Do you think I go around, nodding my head when Weasley calls himself a good for nothing red-head? No. Because that is ill-mannered.”

“You sound really broken up. For someone who just lost their prized possession,” she nudged him with her elbow.

“Don’t you see how inconsolable I am? I don’t know how you can stand sitting here with me, I’m a complete wreck,” he drawled. His head tilted back leisurely to gaze at the night sky. His arm moved to gather her to his side, the heat of him soothing shivers of a chill she didn’t realize she had. 

“You should try reading. Escapism is very successful medicine.”

“You should try wearing shoes and a coat when you decide to stargaze,” he shot back at her, “I have been reading. I must admit, though, it’s taking me quite a bit of time to work my way through the stack you leave outside my door every day,” he was still turned towards the sky.

“It’s not a stack. And it’s a manageable load. You’re being dramatic,” she sighed in exasperation.

“I’m being dramatic?” he spluttered, “There are at least ten novels a day, piled against my door so that when I open it, they all fall on top of my feet first thing in the morning. And they aren’t short reads, either. That giant hardcover about the symbolism in Greek Mythology nearly fractured my left foot!” 

“Well,” her gaze darted to his left foot, “I read more than that in one day, so I think you’ll be fine.”

“I know you do. I suppose we both have the time for it…” since all we do is sit here alone, he meant to say before trailing off. 

“I guess we do.”

The mood had shifted, at the acknowledgment of their isolation. The courtyard ambiance darkened around them. The soft breeze rustling the curls framing her face, now hissed against her exposed skin. The comforting warmth of Malfoy pressed into her side.

“I’m supposed to ask you to stop coming here so often. And to spend time with your friends.”

Malfoy scoffed, dry and unlike the way he playfully reacted to all of her antics,“ I figured they’d come after you sooner than later.”

“Why don’t you just eat lunch with them. It’s only twenty minutes or so. And then they’ll stop complaining.”

“Did that work for you?”

Her face stung. Warning bells of thunder clanged in her ears, yet she did not run. “Yes,” but there was a tiny earthquake in her voice.

“No, it didn’t. I hear them bothering you when I walk you to class,” his voice was hard, the arm blanketing her shoulder tightened.

“They’re not bothering me, they’re just concerned.” Even she couldn’t deny the lack of conviction in her voice.

“Those two things are not mutually exclusive.” Spring flowers sprouted where his fingers stroked her shoulder absentmindedly, where his side pressed into hers. 

“Yes, well, the alternative is having no one be concerned about me. So I prefer it like this, and I think you should too,” she mumbled, half into the material of his jumper on his shoulder. 

He shook his head, a golden ray of hair shaken from its resting place on his forehead, “A bit simpleminded of you to only consider two behaviors.”

“I’m not seeing any other, am I?”

At this, he pulled back and turned towards her. Emotion in his grey eyes pooled like molten lava, his gaze seared into her. She would always remember their empyrean glow.

He leaned closer and whispered, “You fool.”

“What do you mean?”

And then he kissed her.

Although it was sudden, Draco was hesitant. His hands were frozen in the air, holding himself back from touching her; his lips were gentle fire. It was kind, an expression so intimate and caring, that she wondered if he had mistaken her for someone else. He did not ask anything of her, didn’t urge her to respond or open her mouth. He simply showed her his intentions.

After a few moments, he paused and pulled back a breath; their noses still touching.

His eyes were liquid moonlight, bottled and preserved; she was lucky to be so close to them, lucky to not burn up at their intensity. They traced a path from her lips to her eyes, flickering back and forth. Soft tendrils of golden hair brushed against her fingers, as she cupped the back of his head the way she would a precious stone or fallen star.

And then she showed him her intentions. 

She was grasping at his hair, clutching at the nape of his neck, caressing his jaw. Who knew, if she would ever get the chance again; to share the same breath as him, to touch all of the parts of him she dreamed of.

Long gone, was his timid hesitation from before. He matched her every blow with his own. Where her desperation was chaotic and messy, his was artistic and intentional. He traced the seam of her lips like a painter, he twisted his hand in the back of her curls and dipped her head back like they were dancing.

He was burning her with his touch, forging the memory of his body into her own so that she could never forget. 

He hauled her to him, an arm barred behind her back, sculpting her chest to his. One leg slotted between his and a knee beside his hip on the stone bench. His hand traced up her side, from her knee to her ribs. Her hair fell like a curtain, shielding them from the first rays of the sun creeping through the sky like a thief in the night.

They slowed to a stop. He stood up with her gathered to his chest, lifting her feet from the ground for a moment. 

She could feel the sunrise on her back; he set her back down and led them through the halls. His hand clasped tightly in hers only until Hermione started weaving in and out of his path, bumping into his side, her eyes half-lidded. He sighed and scooped her legs out from under her. She was too tired to think much of it, wrapping her arms around his neck, a hand lazily stroking the hair at the back of his neck.

When she woke, he was gently placing her on a bed of emerald silk bed sheets and a frame carved from dark mahogany wood. He left with a parting glance, his eyes light, and his golden hair still askew from her wandering fingers.

Her eyes slammed shut once more, though she fought it. She awoke to the warm aroma of coffee and Draco walking back through the door. Coffee cup in hand, and a book he must have swiped from her bedside table in the other. 

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said as she peaked up at him through slitted eyelids.

“What time is it?” 

“Go back to sleep,” he set his book down and slid into the bed, “You still have a couple more hours before you need to wake up.”

“Aren’t you going to sleep?”

“I don’t sleep at night,” he opened his book.

“Is that my book?”

“I figured I would get a head start on next week’s assignment. I finished this week’s early.”

“If you don’t want to read them, I will stop leaving them out for you,” she grumbled into her pillow.

“Don’t you dare,” he said playfully.

“I don’t think you’ll like that one, too dull or your taste,” she said through a yawn, turning on her side facing him, “Go get the one on the coffee table.”

By the time he came back, she was huddled into her blanket and halfway to sleep. Through bleary eyes, she could see his lips twitch. 

He leaned against the headboard, the hardcover book propped open on his lap. 

The sculpted angles of his face —usually tense and furrowed— were relaxed and passive. Soft light from his bedside lamp shined down on the side of his face and spilled onto the aged parchment of the book. His jumper was the darkest shade of black she had ever seen and the most comfortable-looking wool.

She wondered if he might still be open to her touching him if he would object if she laid her head down on his stomach. He didn’t seem to mind the feel of her in the courtyard, but they were in his room now.

He lifted a page and without looking at her he said, “Stop staring and come over here. I don’t bite.”

She lurched over to him, her head falling on his abdomen, hair waterfalling across his broad chest like ivy on stone. She felt his fingers on her hair, gathering her curls to one side, then brushing against her head softly.

One of his arms was stretched, flexing the book open. The other encircled her shoulder, his fingers massaging deftly into the back of her head. He soothed months of headaches and tension.

She was troubled to hear that he, too, could not find peace of rest. But it was reassuring nonetheless, to have him watching over her at her most vulnerable. 

When she woke in the morning, his hand was buried in her hair, frozen mid-motion. The book was strewn across his lap, sun rays slipping through the half-closed velvet drapes and adorning his face. Warmth radiated from where her cheek met his ribs, from where his arm encircled her back.

A glance at his bedside table showed his coffee was half-finished when he fell asleep. A further inspection showed class started an hour before 

She bolted upright. Draco's arm fell to her lower stomach. Blushing and agitated, she tried to shake him off but he only pulled her closer. Her back fell to his chest, now both of his arms looping around her. His chin rested on the crown of her head.

“Get up, we’re late!” she tried to quell her voice from a shriek but she felt him flinch beneath her regardless. He reluctantly released her. She focused on freeing her limbs from the tangle of blankets and sheets; he rolled off the bed with a groan. 

She raced back into her room. Yanking clothes from their hangers and shoving books and papers in her bookbag. When she met him five minutes later by the door, he handed her a thermos full of coffee. 

In her lethargic haze the night before, she failed to realize he learned how to use her muggle kitchen appliance through watching her. One sip told her that coffee tasted better when he made it. 

When they rushed to class, her head was light and her steps were free.

For the first time that year, she was not bridled with an ache to her head and a damper to her spirits. Her mind was clear, and so she began to realize how narrow her scope of focus had been.

She noticed the way he regarded her as they walked, a dragon curled protectively around piles of rare jewels and Earthly delights. His arm raised —a detail she had never noticed— to curl around her back without leaving the faintest pressure.

She burst through the classroom door before Draco could hold it open for her, mumbling apologies and scrambling to her seat. 

Her face was burning, not only because Ron and Harry were staring at her as if she’d just announced she and Voldemort were once penpals, but because the entire class was gaping at her. 

She schooled her face into a stoic gaze, deflecting curious stares throughout class. She pretended like she couldn’t hear Ron’s urgent whispers. She ignored the heat of Malfoy’s stare on the back of her neck.

She shot up from her seat as soon as class was dismissed. 

At lunch, she passed the courtyard with her head ducked, knowing if he looked past the gaping windows, he could see her darting through the halls. It felt traitorous, with this newfound understanding they reached. But the heat of shame clung to her, the dreaded and familiar ache to her head slowly returned. 

Shocked faces greeted her as she sat down. A silver platter in front of her was loaded with tiny triangle-shaped sandwiches. She pretended not to notice Harry’s wide eyes, Ron's clenched jaw, and Ginny's tentative but wavering smile as she searched for a more desirable dish to eat.

It was when she was lifting a bowl of potato soup, that Ron broke the silence, “Got yourself a boyfriend, do you? That’s a great look, Hermione. Fucking around with a Deatheater.”

Her hand fell limp, the bowl tipped towards Harry. Hermione could dimly hear Ginny chastising Ron as Harry shot from his seat, mopping up the spilled soup from his robes with a spare napkin and cursing under his breath. 

She was standing, her hands fluttering towards the mess, idle and limp. Harry waved off her rapid apologies, telling her not to worry, at least it wasn’t the deviled eggs.

Hermione sat back down, more unsure of her place at the table than ever. Ron’s face flushed; her arm itched.

A tense silence ensued. The four of them gripped the silverware with white knuckles. The surrounding chatter of students seemed much too quiet all of the sudden.

“He’s actually not a Death Eater,” Hermione said, wiping her face with a napkin.

“What?” Harry looked up.

“Draco, he’s not a Death Eater. So, it would be best if you all stopped referring to him as such,” she said, rearranging the half-eaten food on her plate with her fork.

“On a first name basis, are you now?” Ron spit out, “Guess it wasn’t that far-fetched to say he was your boyfriend then.”

Everything about him in that moment was so distasteful to her, the same way her favorite meal was when her mom cooked it too many times in a row. Her stomach. It was only at this moment that she realized she only felt this way when Ron, Harry, or even Ginny dropped some grievance on her. 

Her headaches, though consistent throughout the day, were much worse when any of them harped on her for not acting like herself. 

The only reprieve from turbulent oceans and avalanches of pain in her body silenced, was when she was with—

“It’s been very draining, lately, to reconcile with your anger,” she began, “I care about you all so much but I feel as though our friendships have turned performative. At least on my end, I know so much is true.

“I know I haven’t been the same as I was. But when I’m with you all, I feel apologetic for that and it’s not fair, it’s not how things should be.

“I have to go now, but I’ll be free to discuss this further with any of you this evening. Excuse me,” she stood up from the bench and set her napkin down.

Hermione could barely hear Ginny and Harry calling her name. She marched through the halls. If there was anyone she walked past, she did not notice; they moved out of her way.

She was meters away from the base of the oak tree when she noticed other people gathered around it. 

Several Slytherins were gathered below Malfoy. He was seated several branches higher than usual. His head was tilted towards her empty bench; he didn’t appear to be listening to anything they said.

Pansy Parkinson placed her hands on her hips and said, “Draco, come down, this is ridiculous. It’s his birthday,” she pointed at Theodore Nott, “And you won’t join us? If this carries on, I’m going to have to write to your mum.”

Blaise did a double-take when he saw her, then called out to her. Several heads turned towards her, including Draco’s. His face was guarded, but his eyes were gleaming bright with some untold emotion. 

A bitter seed planted in her heart at his guarded recognition.

“Hello, what’s going on here?” she asked.

“Welcome to the intervention,” Blaise announced, gesturing to the surrounding participants.

“I don’t see how sitting in a tree warrants an intervention…?” Draco snapped.

“It’s all you do now. It’s weird,” Theo said. Draco turned away from them, reopening his book.

“Well go on then, Granger. Tell him to come down,” Blaise nodded at her. Several heads turned towards her, including Draco’s.

Slowly, she walked up to the tree. No one spoke, there was only the sound of grass crunching beneath her feet and leaves rustling in the wind. 

She turned around to look at Blaise but her eyes pivoted to orange hair and shining glasses in the distance. Between the stone pillars bordering the Courtyard windows, Hermione could see Ron and Harry waiting for her. 

The tree bark was rough against her hands. Her palms were clammy and her shoulders were tense; Hermione hated heights.

Experimentally, she grabbed the lowest branch and tried to push herself up. “Someone give her a boost, then,” Draco called.

When no one moved, he scoffed and jumped down. He approached her eagerly, disregarding her hesitance and lifting her in one fluid motion. She scrambled to lift herself. 

They shared a branch; his back to the tree trunk, his arms looping around her ribs, holding her steady. They were directly facing her bench, she could see the carving of slumbering nymphs. 

The lively crowd beneath them ignited; he opened a book in front of them, she turned the page.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading :) Feel free to leave a review, I would very much appreciate it.


End file.
